


Beware the Tide

by TheCortex



Series: a slice of life (in the day) [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Gen, Light Angst, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), References to Depression, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28466055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCortex/pseuds/TheCortex
Summary: During Teddy's teen years, Eliot sees more of Quentin in their son than he anticipated.Or, a study of depression, as seen from the outside.
Relationships: Eliot Waugh & Theodore "Ted" Rupert Coldwater-Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Eliot Waugh & Theodore "Ted" Rupert Coldwater-Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Theodore "Ted" Rupert Coldwater-Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: a slice of life (in the day) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068146
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	Beware the Tide

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! I tried to err on the side of caution with my tags. They sound scary, but this is ultimately a story about how Eliot handles the depressive episodes of those closest to him, without any sort of help. This is still very much About Depression, so please treat yourselves gently.
> 
> As always, thanks to my wonderful beta lazarov, who made sure that my sixteen verb tense changes were cut down to about four (and for the many other suggestions as well XD).

Eliot sees it before Quentin does. Their son, suddenly snappish and defensive. Overly mulish, even for a teenager. No interest in sleep, even less in food. Restless and jittery, but somehow lacking any energy at all. The signs are all there, Eliot thinks, and he tries to push the pang of some familiar, nameless emotion, one that’s awful and twisted and _wrong_ , back into the hole he’s carved in his chest. Because he recognizes the look in Teddy’s eyes, so hollow and blank, knows exactly how his skin acquired that sallow tinge. Eliot aims for casual as he plates their food, surreptitiously studies his son with the sharp eye that he usually reserves for Quentin.

In the light of the evening fire, shadows lick across Teddy’s slightly-more-prominent cheekbones, dance over the way his clothes hang just a _little_ different, and Eliot’s heart _squeezes_. Ted’s always been slight, having inherited a handsome blend of Arielle’s delicate, youthful features and Quentin’s short stature, but now it seems he’s shedding pounds he can’t really afford to lose. The dark circles that ring his eyes make him look older, faintly accented by the tiny bit of stubble he’s managed to grow. 

So Eliot makes himself take a mental step back, tries to force a modicum of neutrality into his gaze as he considers the boy before him. Quentin, when he begins his drift into despondency, eases himself into it as one would slide into a too-hot bath. A barbed remark here, a missed meal there—little, seemingly insignificant things that build and build until Quentin is completely paralyzed, passive and apathetic. 

But Teddy… This time last week, there was no indication that a single thing was amiss. Either he suddenly developed the ability to hide any evidence that he’s feeling unbalanced, or Ted’s symptoms come on quicker and more savagely than those of his father. 

Q’s affliction started around Ted’s age, Eliot remembers. God, Teddy looks so _much_ like what Eliot imagines Quentin would’ve, all russet hair and wide brown eyes, with an impish smile half shy, half smug, and all awkward charm. And that’s why it’s so _agonizing_ to watch their boy get consumed by the same problems; he’s watching Quentin’s teenage years all over again, in real time, and is just as unable to fix it. It’s impossible not to hear the echo of Quentin’s voice, heavily laden with defeat when he admitted, _My brain breaks sometimes_. Eliot can even conjure the sound of Teddy repeating the words, the statements ringing through his skull in a heart-wrenching round. 

Tempers have been growing short on all sides lately, and more than once the tension has boiled into true hostility before Eliot can drive father and son apart. Today’s particular argument seems to still be simmering, though whatever had sent Teddy stalking off into the woods earlier isn’t being discussed in front of Eliot, and he isn’t about to question it now. Not when he’s burdened with realization. 

Bracing himself against the countertop with closed eyes, Eliot breathes out slow, not able to trust his face with the gargantuan task of guarding his thoughts. He feels stupid, so _fucking_ stupid, because how he had not _seen_ it? Almost twenty years by Q’s side, for fuck’s sake, and he still, _still_ , doesn’t notice a spiral until it’s already underway? Jesus Christ, what kind of person is he? What kind of _parent_?

In the few instances that Quentin got so entrenched in his own despair that he barely bothered to speak, Eliot had sent Teddy off to stay with Arielle’s family. But the last time Q had an incident _that_ incapacitating, Ted had still been young enough to leap into the adventure with delighted enthusiasm. On the eve of his eleventh birthday, however, the guest of honor had informed them, in no uncertain terms, that he was _not_ to be treated like a child anymore. And Teddy is so inconveniently perceptive, searching his parents’ faces for _years_ with those too-knowing eyes, while Quentin’s brain chemistry wages war on his psyche, and Eliot devotes days at a time tenuously anchoring Q to reality.

They’ve never put a name to the stretches of time when Eliot unflaggingly coaxes Quentin from beneath the quilt, when Ted can get a few sips of broth into Q when he’ll eat nothing else, when they three lie tangled in bed, Q squeezed hard against Eliot’s chest and Teddy firm against his back, and neither say anything about the grease in his hair and the odor under his arms.

They’ve never put a name to it, but Teddy knows exactly how to trade off duties with Eliot so that neither gets burnt out, knows when to ignore the puzzle for a day and when to drag his father outdoors by the ear. He knows that there’s a reason that Quentin gets sick around the same time of year, knows there is so much he hasn’t been told. Is understandably sullen and frustrated over being left out of whatever is bubbling beneath the surface, tired of the silent conversations spoken over his head.

Teddy’s seen Q empty and lethargic, unable to care about himself or the world around him. He’s seen the passion and vibrancy completely drain from the most important person in his life. But he’s never really seen Quentin’s worst days.

Eliot wonders if he’s ultimately done the boy a disservice. Ted can’t anticipate the ebb and flow that encompasses Q’s wide spectrum of emotion, nor can his dad’s fickle behavior serve as his own guiding, moody, star. Now, at fourteen, there’s a compelling case that Ted is mature enough to grasp the implications of his father’s sickness—and old enough to no longer be sheltered from the goings-on in his own home. He and Q and Ari had arrived at that verdict together, to protect their son, but second-guessing every life choice is Eliot’s true Discipline.

When he had pondered all the ways his life could go, Eliot had never imagined a world in which they would have to teach a child Quentin’s dubiously useful coping mechanisms, cherry-picked from a decade’s worth of therapy. He’d never thought that living in a shack, in the woods, in a living Renaissance Faire, with his— with… with Quentin, in the aftermath of losing Q’s wife, wouldn’t be payment enough for the universe. No, it had to fuck over a kid whose only crime was being born to their family, punishing the son for the sins of the father. So maybe he should have fought harder, compromised a little more, done _something_. But he hadn’t. Because he never, not for a moment, entertained the thought that Q’s sinister mantle would settle over Teddy.

Eliot’s trying to push down an aching sorrow, but the prickling in the back of his throat, like he’s just swallowed glass, isn’t budging. His own father was never a beacon of restraint and good judgment so he doesn’t have much of a stick to measure by, but he likes to think he’s better than that. In fact, given the absolute lack of precedents governing this situation, he might even be doing _well_. Out here it’s just Quentin and himself, navigating the murky waters of Teddy’s adolescence in a world not their own—a world without licensed therapists and a CVS on the corner. And Eliot can only recall brief snippets of information; _yes, unfortunately… genetic…_ ; _as much natural light as he can get…_ ; ... _moderate exercise…_ ; _…never done well with schedules… benefit from any kind of structure to his day…_ ; _…half-assed effort… better than no effort at all…_

Trying to prompt Q into _actualizing_ those goals, on the other hand… Well. He’d be lying if he said that he’s completely over Quentin’s most caustic jabs.

And yet, without another thought, Eliot would sacrifice his own beating heart to spare either of them even one more moment of hardship. If some magic exists out there, something that guarantees an end to the fucking _torment_ that plagues his family, he would walk through hell to get it, would allow the worst parts of himself absolute reign, and damn the consequences. He would battle armies, he would stand before dragons, he would marry as many women as was needed. He would raze Whitespire itself to the ground and _salt the earth_ if that would mean, definitively, that his boys would never witness another wretched _second_ of harm. 

But there _is_ no trick, no magic, no fucking miracle to hold his breath for. All he has is seventeen years of trial and error, best guesses and crossed fingers. Of standing impotently by, unable to lend even an _iota_ of his own will to Q’s paper-thin resistance. There’s no treatment in Fillory, chemical or otherwise; what are the odds that, with the shittiest conceivable luck following them through two realms in forty timelines, any of the typical calming methods would even _work_ on Teddy? 

After all, Quentin’s been in and out of hospitals almost his entire life, has been browbeaten into not giving up or giving in, by a friend who refuses to acknowledge the option. But Teddy doesn’t _have_ a Julia. He has no one to interrupt his thoughts when they twine themselves into a paradoxical loop of icy detachment and excruciating self-loathing. He has no one to stubbornly dig their heels in when he gets entangled in the quagmire of his own head, no one to bully him into a meal or a bath on the days he decides not to put in the effort. No one to pull him, wide-eyed and awestruck, into a land of fantasy where their joint imagination is enough to keep the abyss at bay. So Eliot has to witness Teddy wander toward the same terrifying river that rips Quentin from his grasp, not knowing where in the ocean of desolation his son will surface. 

Worse, Q doesn’t even _realize_. He doesn’t recognize Teddy’s behavior as a reflection of his own, doesn’t notice that the rhythms of their illness are almost painfully in sync. And poor Ted, he doesn’t see it either.

Quentin is once again approaching that dangerous stream, where a noxious little whisper blocks out anyone’s distress but his own, and the treacherous whirlpool of his mind threatens to suck him under. It’s been coming for days now, Q’s spikes of fury slowly fading to apathy, and it seems that Teddy is ready to follow. Ted’s condition is only now showing the path to this secret place—the place where the current runs fast and strong and the undertow carries you out to the great black expanse before you realize you’ve even waded in. Where you drown for days upon weeks upon months without once greeting Death, no matter how much you cry out to him. Where the deep dark sea isn’t nearly as wide or bottomless as it seems, where the hands of those who love you reach out from every shore, try to pull you back to the shallows. Where, despite everything—because there are stones are around your ankles, dragging you down, and the voices desperately calling to you can’t be heard over the crash of waves, and this… this bone-deep _weariness_ leaves you full of that weighty, unnamable _something_ —the fight to keep afloat is just... too much.

Eliot can’t— _can’t_ —lose his son to the odious… _thing_ that already tempts Quentin away from them. It’s rough going when the groping hands that live within the vortex of Quentin’s mindscape overwhelm his barriers and yank him down, into that place so dark and cold and eerily tranquil, where _peace_ and _surrender_ are nearly synonymous. If he finds Teddy walking toward that hushed beach, if Ted finds it so full of the same promise, the constriction in Eliot’s ribs will suffocate him. 

He’s already sworn that he will do anything— _anything_ — to keep Teddy from getting caught in the deceiving tide, where the brook seems placid and cool, inviting even, as if stumbling upon a spring on a hot summer day. Where stopping to dip your feet in is refreshing, where inching into the water is easy, welcome. Until the wary, lulled into a false sense of security, are ripped away by the torrent. Until the glow of the sun and the embrace of a lover and the delight of a fire on a crisp autumn night, until every kind of warmth and comfort is stripped away, and only the cold remains. Eliot will fight, to the last molecule, to keep his boy from being swept away by the flood. 

The alternative might actually kill him.

Finally straightening, Eliot garnishes the plates with a flourish, a motion that, had he seen it, would cause that familiar concerned crease to appear between Quentin’s eyebrows. Ted merely mumbles his thanks as dinner (fresh-caught fish and salad greens with some kind of beet-like plant that inexplicably tastes like ranch Doritos, all Teddy’s favorites) slides onto the table, but he only pushes the food around as Eliot steps out of the cottage.

Moisture is gathering in his eyes as he glances around the yard, and Eliot doesn’t even lie to himself about the cause. Today, he can’t pretend. Today, he can’t affect that lofty, unflappable façade and place the blame on the harsh glare of the moments before sunset, that time of day that reflects the light off of what seems to be every horizontal surface.

Not when the wetness on his cheeks is from watching two sets of Coldwater shoulders become more defensive and dejected by the day. Not when he’s so acutely aware that all the swelling anger and unfettered frustration flow from the same ocean of grief. Not when he spends most days clenching his hands or jaws or shoulders, or when he’s filled with a white-hot fury because he is powerless to do anything, _anything_ that would make even the slightest difference. Not when the two most important people in his life are circling each other like rabid dogs, both lashing out in pain, both curling protectively around their wounds, both snarling at anyone that might come near.

Q is crouched by the mosaic now, ostensibly waiting for Eliot before putting in the last tile, but obviously in need of a moment before he can be civil with his progeny. Somewhere over the years they’d unofficially designated that edge to become the final corner of each design; the last piece laid and the first dug up. And that is where Quentin’s chosen to hover.

Eliot scrubs his hands over his face, allows himself a single, long, heavy breath while his palms press small bursts of color behind his eyes. The _what the fuck am I supposed to do?_ would have to wait. When he focuses again, Quentin is smiling over his shoulder, genuine if a little strained. Three days’ worth of scruff is built up on his cheeks, hiding the dimples that Eliot so adores, but he can’t deny that he loves the feeling of Q’s beard as he scratches his nails through it.

So that’s what he does when he approaches; drops a kiss atop Q’s head as he settles beside him, stroking his fingers through the bristly hair on Quentin’s chin. With a sigh, he asks the ritual question. “Ready?”

Quentin sighs too, returns the ritual answer. “Guess so.”

Eliot loops his arm through Quentin’s, a motion equal parts reassurance and trepidation. Neither of them knows what will happen if this draft is The One, so they always complete the picture together, connected by at least one point. If they’re anchored together, whatever magic that flares up will (in theory) affect them both. And while Teddy is more than old enough to get himself to his grandparents’ house—and had told them so, more than once—the fact that the adults finish while he sits alone betrays their lack of confidence in this design. So when Q slides the light blue square into place and there is no change in the evening calm, Eliot lets out a breath that is probably a shade too far on the wrong side of relieved.

Every pattern that fails is another day here. Another day that Teddy doesn’t have to face his demons alone. Another day that Eliot can sit at Arielle’s grave with a flagon of truly awful wine, spinning stories about her family—about the good man her son is becoming and the absolutely ridiculous man that is her husband. Another day he can spend wrapped in this idyllic, domestic, somehow perfect life. Another day that scrapes away, just a little bit, the desire to return at all.

After a long moment, Eliot climbs to his feet, knocks the grass from his clothes. He offers a hand down to Q, a resigned smile flitting across his face. Quentin, staring at the picture, huffs out a frustrated noise and flicks the offending tile back toward a stack of its fellows. They are also unresponsive.

But he allows Eliot to pull him up, goes willingly when El tucks him into that just-right place beneath his chin. Q’s arms hang loose at his sides, forehead pressed firmly into Eliot’s sternum. Eliot’s hands run up and down his back in what he hopes is a soothing gesture, easing warmth into muscles that are stiff and sore from the labor of the day. Quentin sinks further into the embrace so Eliot moves his fingers up to thread through the bits of hair that have come loose from Q’s bun, presses another kiss to the crown of his head.

They stand in silence long enough that Quentin startles him when he speaks. “I’m being an asshole, aren’t I?” The question, muttered into Eliot’s chest, is muffled, but the pain is still clear.

Eliot clears his throat and tries to put his patented levity into the answer. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed. “Yes, but I’ve been known to enjoy a good asshole on occasion.”

Q makes a sound that rumbles through Eliot’s chest. “It’s not just me though, right? Like, he’s been a raging douchebag all week.”

Over Quentin’s head, Eliot can see Teddy through the open cottage door. He’s picking at the remains of his dinner, but clearly only remaining at the table to appease his parents. Quentin is still faceplanted miserably in his arms, his own vicious brain no doubt forming a berating circle comprised of anger and agony. Eliot’s boys, his _family_ , the centers of his universe, orbiting one another like twin suns, are suffering from an ailment that knows no cure, and Eliot’s heart is in _pieces_. He pulls Quentin tighter, closes his eyes, breathes in Q’s comforting scent.

The thing that Quentin feared most in the world has come true, and there is no good way to tell him. So Eliot takes a deep breath and braces himself to confess that Q’s unbreakable curse has been passed down to the next generation.


End file.
